


Us Against the World

by AmRye



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Abandonment, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Trauma, Dubious Consent, Falling In Love, Historical, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Internal Conflict, M/M, Political Alliances, Psychological Trauma, Self-Discovery, Sex, Sexual Tension, Sexual Violence, Slow Romance, Temporary Character Death, Torture, Unrequited Love, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24029566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmRye/pseuds/AmRye
Summary: England has a long, bloodied, and varied history that shaped him into the person he is today, wrought with bitterness, cruelty, desire, and with a determination to become one of the greatest empires the world has ever seen. And England is intent on keeping that strength, not allowing anyone to slip past the impenetrable defenses that he's built around his heart. It only takes one with persistence. Born from the roots of conquest and desire, a special bond emerges—stained with need, regret, and love. A series of vignettes that will offer a glimpse into England's various relationships throughout his history. [Vignettes that encompass a variety of historical romantic relationships.]
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia), England/France (Hetalia), Minor China/England, Minor England/Portugal, Minor England/Prussia, Minor England/Russia, Minor England/Scotland, Minor England/Spain
Comments: 21
Kudos: 41





	Us Against the World

**Author's Note:**

> This work will be a series of vignettes following a recollection of various historical events from Arthur's perspective. Most of which will follow along the timeline appropriately, chronologically, while others may be side-stories from other time periods. This is a bit of an experiment, as I'm interested in seeing how this will be received. Arthur has had various relationships throughout history and this allows glimpses at all of them. Arthur's association with Alfred will remain one of the main focuses, but that is only one important thread in his varied history, of course. Thank you for taking the time to read! Comments are appreciated!

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Rome was the first one who showed Britannia how weak she really was.

The first man who ever desired her to ruin, dissolving her ability to protect the few precious things she had left.

“Beautiful,” Rome had called her long, so very long ago; his smile warm and his eyes friendly—even with two legions of his army behind him ready to plunder her land like he’d done to so many others before her. “Beautiful Britannia,” Rome had baptized her. The waters of her coast ran red with the blood of her people that day.

The birthing of England took the remainder of Britannia’s waning strength, her last gift to the world before her body finally relinquished. England was born into a time of violence, brokenness, and fear.

Despite his youth matched with a condensed history, England remembered everything in perfect detail. He always did have excellent memory when it came to the past.

He remembered his fierce brothers who once towered over his much smaller form, who tried to eradicate him and everything he stood for: an abomination on the island.

He remembered the dark centuries of the bloody barbarians who took his lands from him, the scruffy blonde giants whom he hated even more than his own brothers. England stood firmly against them all, young and malnourished, armed only with a worn bow at his side, a drenched cloak at his back.

England remembered every last man and woman who fought for him, the many tears he’d cried over the deaths of beloved kings and heroes, giving him their lives, prompting the moment in the distant future when he was first able to hold the blue, red, and white of his flag.

Tears were a luxury that only the powerful could afford, and yet they still ran whenever the shroud of night came, mingling with the endless trickle of rain. No one could see them. Not even the fae, dangerous and fickle as they were, drifting in and out of the isle’s mist. One of the many mysteries that his mother once held, the mother that he never knew.

Even having his heart broken for the first time by someone he loved was vivid, the ache of an open wound that refused to mend, though it certainly wouldn’t be his last.

England could remember a lot of things; but the one thing that stood out amongst all his dusty memories was the cold, empty space at his side.

His second was his promise to be the strongest.

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**_1589_ **

“I—Ingleterra,” a breathy word broke England’s alcohol-induced haze, alerting him to where in the depths of Hell he was. England sighed, impatient, as he tugged on brown curls, urging the man to go faster, harder because he had business to attend to.

His sweaty back stuck to the sea of bedsheets beneath him, his limbs tangled with a muscular body that was sun-beaten and tasted of the sea. England was familiar with the sounds that the other man made, gasps and breathy moans sewed between the musky scent of sex and the sulfuric aftertaste of iron, droplets of blood that stained the sheets, seeping past soiled bandages.

The scent that England caught the most thickly was the distinctive smell of alcohol, cheap and poor after being out at sea for so long, but it was good enough for a day of victory. England hadn’t wanted to wake up the next day with a pounding headache with only whispers of memory grasping at him. Tonight was different, and he had Spain to thank for that. England savored the look he’d worn, the rage, the split second of sadness, and the expression of utter defeat. He had Spain to thank for being sober enough to feel every soft and loving touch of Spain’s brother, his ex-charge.

Victory never tasted so sweet, was his smug thought, absentmindedly biting at his ring finger before he tugged Portugal into another heated kiss.

This tasted of triumph.

The tanned, weather-roughened hand reached up to cup the face of the fairer of the two, a sea-calloused thumb stroking the flushed face.

“I love you,” he breathed hotly against the British Empire’s skin, chapped lips mapping every little scar on the pale expanse of skin, treating them like jewels rather than the disfigurations that they were. The Portuguese nation was under a spell, enchanted with the siren’s song and thorny petals.

“I love you…” he repeated, his lips pressed briefly against England’s forehead, a second one on his lips, a third and a fourth. Portugal’s kisses were sweeter than honey, the clumsy passion of a sailor with genuine honesty in his touches. Dark eyes looked at England with adoration, the other’s boyish good looks outlined the tender emotions of a man deeply in love.

England felt bitterness rising in his throat at the sight, and not able to stand the sight of it, he closed his eyes. He focused simply on feeling the rocking motions of Portugal’s body as he rode out the hazy waves of pleasure, the little thrills running up England’s spine, the flush of his skin, and the familiar feeling of having a man between his thighs. England was all too used to having a man adorn his bed.

Wrapping his arms around Portugal’s neck, he murmured soothing words against is lips, carding his fingers through his thick, brown curls, and kissing his pliant lips. He always savored the sweet spices, the bitter alcohol, and everything that made Portugal so warm and gentle.

When it was over, England pulled away from the arms sweetly embracing him, sitting up on the side of the bed. His fingers rubbed tenderly against his own temple, feeling the oncoming headache, but it eased with the reminder that he had other business to attend to. England was looking forward to seeing Spain’s sorry, defeated excuse for a face.

“Don’t go,” Portugal murmured against his back, the strong arms refusing to let him leave. “Stay here with me,” he murmured, a sleepy voice, thick with the remnants of desire.

“Let me go before I put a bullet in your head,” England muttered, surveying the darkened room as he stood up to pick at his discarded garments. “I’m leaving.”

England liked leaving first; it was much better than being the one left behind.

“I love you,” Portugal stared at England with something akin to desperation.

Nothing was said for several minutes except for the rustle of clothing, the slide of gloves over pale fingers, the chime of a belt buckle, the flutter of a tailored coat thrown over slim shoulders. There was no other sound but the fast, nervous beating of one heart, and the slow disinterest of another.

Then finally, “Inglaterra—”

A smile twisted the privateer’s lips, razor-sharp and cynical, reminding Portugal of broken glass. There was amusement dancing in England’s green eyes, so much like a pair of beautiful emeralds dipped in cold poison. “I know that, darling,” he said simply, the exotic lilt of his tongue sending an uneasy shiver down Portugal’s spine.

The pale sheets pooled around Portugal’s hips when he stood, still flushed, dark curls plastered to his forehead, his lips swollen. He looked lovely, England thought. No wonder Spain didn’t want to let him go. All the more reason to take him away from the stupid bastard.

“I love you,” Portugal repeated, his accent growing thicker with emotion. He spoke with conviction, his eyes determined and hopeful. One would think that after all he’d gone through, the rise and decline of the once powerful Portuguese Empire, the scars that he bore, and the years of suffering under Spain’s rule, that he wouldn’t be so optimistic.

Love. Why the hell would England want love? Everyone who ever claimed to love him always abandoned him.

England was sick of being loved by men who never really loved him at all.

Portugal continued, “I love you. You’re the only one I want. I’ll protect you.”

For a lightning-quick second, England’s heart faltered, a skip, a second of weakness in his impenetrable shields. The momentary weakness passed; however, a flutter in the winds.

Protect him?

England heard those words so many times before, to the point where he’d lost count. France murmured those same words into his skin the first time that England had been bedded, only to lead an attack onto his capital days later. His brothers often used to trick him during his childhood, passionate promises to protect him before they left him alone and defenseless in the dangers of the wild, before their words of affection became sharp arrows at his back.

England didn’t _need_ anyone to protect him. He’d been alone for centuries. England could bloody well protect himself. He’d been doing it the second he’d been born.

“I’ll fight for you,” Portugal continued, his dark eyes sincere and warm. England was familiar with his warm smile over the years, confident and bright, the expert navigator staring back at him. “If it’s Spain’s head you want, I’ll bring it to you on a golden platter.”

England didn’t need anyone to protect him. Although… England craved that most of all. No one had ever promised to protect him and actually kept to their word. No one had ever proclaimed to love him and actually stayed by his side. Despite his efforts, England wasn’t made of ice, he still wanted the warmth and love he never had during his childhood.

A happy place. A home where no one would ever want to leave, where everyone smiled. A warm place. A warm person.

England’s gaze steadily hardened as he looked at Portugal with his open eyes and open heart. The only men who swore love to him always wanted something in return. Power, money, land, or even a night with him. They always wanted something in return for their sweet nothings and loving words.

Of course Portugal would love him. Had England not fought Spain to help him? They’ve been allies since the very beginning. Of course he would love him and promise to protect him, because if it weren’t for England, he would still be Spain’s charge.

All wanted him, all desired him, but none of them needed him. England was something pretty to adorn their beds, since they couldn’t conquer him, the next best thing was to have him on his back, beneath him and at their mercy. The British Empire never bent over for anyone in the battlefield, yielded to no man and submitted to no enemy.

Catching a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror nailed to the cabin wall, England straightened out the wrinkles in his shirt. He wasn’t able to stop the mocking smile from blooming over his lips, a thorny rose that cut all who touched it. “You love me, you say?”

Not backing down, Portugal tilted his chin stubbornly. There was an elegance in him, the dog of the sea with his brutish ways matched with princely charms. It was what made England favor him for so long. “Inglaterra, if you would have me, I would do anything for you.”

“I know that,” a smirk twisted the Empire’s lips, cruel and beautiful like the tempest that was the sea. “And am I supposed to care?”

Sheathing his sword, England turned his back on the other, not looking at the pain reflected in the other nation’s brown eyes, the obvious heartbreak, the disbelief, and the betrayal. England had always been so good at making men fall in love with him. He just wasn’t any good at making them stay.

Tucking his trousers into his black boots, England pushed aside the scarlet coat to return his pistol to its holster. Walking over to his long-time ally, England’s gloved hand cupped the frozen nation’s chin. He really was lovely.

“I’ll say goodbye to Spain for you, my darling Portugal,” planting a brief kiss on the dark-haired man’s cheek, England smiled brazenly. “The stupid bastard is still crying over his precious armada. It won’t be long before his golden throne is mine.”

England was strong. He had to be strong, because the only other option was to be weak and he would never allow himself to be weak again. Not again, never again. England knew all too well the pain of being nothing but a powerless little island. Everyone who came to his shores loved hurting him. And England was sick of being hurt, so he built himself an empire so that he would never be hurt again.

He reinforced that empire with steel walls and barbed wire so that no one could ever breech it. He locked away his heart, but its presence was always with him wherever he went, a hot coal in his pocket that flared whenever someone managed to breech the walls of his empire, even if just a little.

But it didn’t matter. Because England now had a magnificent empire, the greatest of them all. Anything he wanted, he got. He was bigger than anyone, stronger than anyone, better than anyone. They could keep their love, sweet nothings, and broken promises.

It was better to be feared than loved.

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Being at sea was the closest that England felt to being truly happy, and it was something that he would fight viciously to keep in this fucked up world. The rocking of the ways beneath him, the short temper of the harsh mistress, the salty winds that lulled the veils of his ship from sleep to wakefulness and back again was a tempting thing to own for any nation whose tasted seafaring.

England was making his way into the belly of his ship before he came among his other intriguing captive.

“Time to show me that lovely face of yours, darling.”

Water splashed hard against the sleeping nation’s face, startling him out of his slumber. Tried green eyes snapped open, his bruised limbs tensing in alertness. Thick chains were about his neck, wrists and ankles weighing him down heavily, restricting his movements and only allowing him to crane his neck to look into the face of his captor.

The heavily browed green gaze was unmistakable, as was the vulpine smirk on the island nation’s lips.

“My, my. You look quite fetching like that, my beloved Spain.”

A hiss of pain was England’s response, the heel of his boot digging sharply into Spain’s broken ribs. The Spaniard’s eyes glared hotly at him from a grim-streaked face, a set of bleeding lips forming a grimace. Despite how much he struggled and cursed at England, all Spain could do was yank at his chains like a beaten dog.

Chuckling, England pushed the heel of his boot down further. The crunching of bones grinding together was music to his ears.

“Now, now, there’s no need to make such a face, old chap,” he crooned, leaning down to brush the back of his gloved hand against Spain’s bruised cheek. Three days and still, the man refused to surrender. It was getting on England’s nerves. “I’m only here to talk business, so stop this incessant glowering of yours.”

Snapping at England’s hand, Spain twisted away from his touch. England chuckled at his stubbornness, a dulcet smile making its way to his lips. “How rude, and here I thought we were past this kind of foreplay.”

Curling his fingers against the chains attached to Spain’s collar, England yanked the other country forward, blood dribbling down Spain’s chin at the roughness, staining the white shirt a dark crimson. A chilling smile spread as England brought their faces close together, Spain’s labored breathing hot against the Englishman’s lips.

“It’s in your best interest to listen, and listen well,” he began, the silky tones of his voice caressing the dark-haired man’s bloodied mouth as gently as the ocean breeze. “Relinquish your control over the seas and I’ll let you leave.” A pause followed by an airy chuckle. “Of course, I can’t promise that you’ll go in one piece.”

Cupping Spain’s face with one hand, England delighted at the expression of pure anger. Laughing, he crouched down before the chained nation. “Feisty, feisty. Your brother is definitely more to my taste.”

The change was immediate. Gritting his teeth, Spain narrowed his eyes. “Leave Portugal out of this. You’ve done enough to him.” His voice was rough from disuse, dry from the lack of water.

“No more than you have,” England made a noise of disgust and irritation.

“You’re a witch,” Spain spat, teeth red with blood. His patented smile was nowhere to be seen this time. “If he fails, it will be your doing.”

Raising an eyebrow, England smiled derisively, adding lewd tones to his words. “I have not done anything to your brother that he has not asked me to do.” Trailing gloved fingers down Spain’s chest, he toyed with the flimsy buttons of his blood-stained shirt. “You know yourself how pleasant a host I can be, or would you like me to refresh your memory?”

Spain face shuttered close, eyes darkening with anger. England’s lips curved into a smirk. “We’ve had fun times together in the past, haven’t we? Tell me what I want to hear, and I will trade your chains for the comfort of my bed. I can assure you that my chambers are preferable to this dungeon.”

Spain spit out a mouthful of blood at England’s feet, clenching his hands. “He loves you.”

Gritting his teeth, Spain repeated, “He loves you and you don’t give a damn, do you?”

England’s mouth twitched, his mood souring. “I fail to see how this is relevant to the matter at hand. My patience with you grows thin.” He stood, taking several steps back, his expression merciless, growing hard. “Choose and be quick about it.”

“What do you want me to say?” Spain hissed, yanking at his chains. It was a fruitless effort, and he knew it. Spain was the country of passion, and England knew he was just as zealous in his anger as he was in his love.

“I’m the one in chains. What else do you want from me?” His anger made his accent thicker, his eyes alive with green fire as he shook the chains once more in emphasis.

Grinning wickedly, England nudged him with the toe of his boot. “For starters, you could bow your head and lick my boots. How does that sound, poppet?”

“You’re going to have to untie me first, princesa,” Spain scowled.

England blinked, taken aback. This was unexpected. He didn’t think that Spain was capable of an easy surrender, not from a man that he knew as well as the back of his own hand. Spain was known for being a resilient bastard, so when did he start bending over backwards for anyone? Brow furrowed, England pursed his lips.

“Pardon?”

“Did you just come here to gloat?!” Spain snapped, frustrated. “You’re despicable! Just bend over so I can kiss your ass already, I’m tired of this.”

Closing the distance between them, England dropped to one knee, his infamous temper flaring to life. He was furious at this turn of event, and also terribly disappointed. He was expecting Spain to put up more of a fight, and he was so lovely when provoked. Just as lovely as his brother, and twice as strong. England loved strong men, loved the challenge they provided him with. He especially loved breaking them. This time, though, it seemed someone had gotten to Spain before him.

“So, you’re just going to do as I say, is that it?”

Spain refused to meet his eyes, “You make it sound as if I have a choice.”

England gazed at him, green eyes half-lidded. He pressed his lips tightly together, a bitter taste in his mouth. This isn’t what he wanted. He pulled the ring of keys from inside his coat, unlocking the collar around Spain’s neck.

“Get out,” he spat, his hands shaking with anger. “Go back to your country and if I catch you anywhere near my waters, I won’t hesitate to tear you apart.”

If Spain was surprised by the Empire’s quick mood change, he didn’t show it. England quickly rid him of the chains attached to his wrists before throwing the keys at him to unlock the rest. Crossing his arms over his chest, he turned around.

“You’ve become weak,” England muttered, his back to him.

Spain clicked his tongue in disdain, gingerly getting up while being mindful of his wounds. “That’s none of your business, reina,” his voice was dry.

“You should get rid of that brat,” England continued as if he hadn’t heard him, glancing back at Spain disdainfully. “Look at what he’s done to you. You used to be twice the man you are now—” he fell silent at the fond look that washed away Spain’s anger, replacing it with what could only be genuine fondness.

England knew that look on Spain’s face. He recognized the soft and gentle expression, the warmth lighting his eyes. He never thought he’d see that look on Spain. When did Spain begin to smile like that? There was love in that smile. The Spain that England knew loved nothing more than his hordes of colonies and mountains of gold.

The sight left England feeling empty.

Smiling his first true smile since being captured, Spain rubbed softly at his wrists. “Don’t say things like that. Not when it’s your fault that I’ll get yelled at by Romano when I come home looking like this.”

“If you’d just given up on that brat from the start, you wouldn’t be in this position,” England remarked. He leaned against the grimy wall, averting his eyes from Spain’s ridiculous expression. “It’s not like you’ve gained anything valuable from him. I would’ve gotten rid of him; I have no interest in useless brats.”

Spain laughed, and all traces of his dark mood vanished at the mention of his favorite ward’s existence. It was unnerving, and England’s heart ached with the happiness he saw on his face. “You never did like children, Inglaterra.”

“If they are of no use to me, then I have no need for them,” England murmured, his voice laced with revulsion. He didn’t know this Spain. This Spain who smiled and laughed with such carelessness. When had he been left behind? Then again, when wasn’t he?

“But one day you will.”

England’s shoulders tensed, not liking Spain’s new tone of voice. He grumbled, annoyed, “What?”

“One of these days, you’ll understand too,” Spain was still smiling, although there was a hint of something in the gesture that made England even more uncomfortable. “And whoever they are, they will make you smile. Or at least I hope they do.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Thoroughly annoyed now, England glared at him. “And I thought I told you to get out!”

Spain pouted, also looking annoyed. “No wonder you don't have any friends. Fine, Fine, me voy.”

“Good riddance,” England spat, uncrossing his arms. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out. I don’t want your stink on it.”

Spain scoffed in disgust, “If it was up to me, I wouldn’t even be here.”

England watched him leave, limping, his shoulders slumped in defeat, with none of the old spark left in him, and he felt a thorn in his heart. Another day, another old love who had left him. England knew that he should be used to this feeling by now, but it still stung.

It always hurt, far more than he would ever admit.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed my writing, feel free to support me on ko-fi! (https://ko-fi.com/amrye) Thank you!


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